Tuesday, August 09, 2011

3 poems by Jackson Meazle



Plotless with car sounds
only three men a girl, one man
I resemble him through
enthusiastic assembly.

And before discovery
a gear-shift impingement
the floor, real life (impossibly)
connects, contact without action.

And very few words.




Mine is better than yours
                          and more symmetrical
            to be loved in sharpened ways
                   or worse in waves.
                                    Mine being
finished, finding as archery
              elsewhere forgetting simile, your
         yanks cannot compare historically.

A tenor in timbre and tone
            a nation uncompromising
                    forgotten pieces
          of mine, yours in disbelief
     or debtor’s denial.
                                                    I hear
the teeth in mine but a pining
            pinball joyous & high scoring
              instead of bric-a-brac sacrifices.
          the drowned-out of mine & yours.




I love the little
books of yours.

They play fragile
and prolific a soft.

Tired living among
shoving off.

Ponds shadows
rusted and busted.

Plywood dock
again a man and.

Another ruined
a mower blade.